All alone
by xIrelandx
Summary: Headcanons, drabbles, and possibly the occasional Mostly Layton/Luke and I'm new to the Please don't kill me in my Post-Unwound NOTE: I have altered Luke's age because when the heck did he or the Professor ever go to school if CV/DB/UF take place back-to-back?
1. I fell in love with a wind-up souvenir

Flora was by no means a dumb girl. She did, after all, live in a world where puzzles were traded like currency, and she'd managed to survive on her own for five years before finally breaking down and sending for outside help. The Professor didn't seem to consider her very valuable, as he never took her anywhere, but she understood this was in part because he was her legal guardian now and felt a duty to protect her. Of course, her father's intention with that little character trial was to find a suitable husband for Flora, and she was greatful for the Professor's obliviousness. She had absolutely no intention of getting married just yet, no matter what was "right" or "proper" for a lady. Nonetheless, she was bright and fully capable of taking care of herself, and did so with alarming frequency as the Professor was never at home. She did well in school, enjoyed learning new things, and whenever possible she took the opportunity to pick up a new skill. Despite her great enthusiasm for learning, there was one aspect of life she would never be able to grasp: Society.

Even before her mother died and her father set to work building St Mystere, Flora was both physically and socially isolated from other people her age. Being wealthy may have a lot of advantages, but friendship was most certainly not one of them. After the town of robots had been built, she had more people to keep her company. But robots are not human beings. They don't have the same morals or ideas about life as humans do, and so there were many things about life in London that confused Flora.

For one, she was endlessly flummoxed by how violent the city could be. She suspected the Professor of requesting Chelmey and Barton to keep an eye on her whenever she saw fit to leave his house. At first she was greatly annoyed by the idea, as she found it condescending. Had she or had she not navigated the streets of St Mystere on her own? But after a man with a shaggy beard and grubby hands attempted to mug her, she was quite thankful for the lookout. St Mystere had been built to protect and nurture her, so the idea that someone out there might want to cause harm to her had simply never occurred. She was also annoyed by how rude other people were, and concerned about the homeless who lined the streets, especially in areas like Whitechapel. What affected Flora most, however, were society's rules about love.

It seemed odd to Flora that people should expect one true love to last forever, when life was ever-changing and inconsistent. She didn't understand why marriage was such a big deal, or why, if she wanted to care for a child without the support of a husband, she should be looked down upon. She couldn't fathom why two men being together or two women being together was considered a travesty, or why multiple people could not be together if that was what they really wanted. Love was so intangible and difficult a topic to grasp, and Flora simply couldn't see why such a convoluted subject needed nearly as many rules as it had.

Flora asked the Professor all of these questions once, and each was met with silence. The Professor finally set down the papers in his hand and said to Flora, 'Many people are convinced that unless certain standards are upheld, society will fall apart.'

'But who makes these rules?' she asked.

The Professor shrugged. 'Religion, mostly, although some - such as speed limits and the age of consent - are created by the government.'

Flora thought on this. 'The speed limit I can understand. It's quite unsafe if you've got cars going really slowly and really quickly operating in the same lane together.'

The Professor tilted his head. 'I take it you disagree with the consent laws?'

'I don't understand - if love is love, then what does it matter?' she blurted.

The Professor blushed and fumbled with his papers. 'Well, a lot of it has to do with psychology -'

'But love is love,' Flora insisted. 'And isn't life about being happy?'

The Professor closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. 'I think it is, Flora,' he said, and left it at that.

* * *

Flora was actually quite upset about Luke leaving, but it wasn't really her place to show emotion about it all. She hadn't known Luke for nearly as long as the Professor had, and while he put on a good facade at work, Flora knew he was suffering more than he would show. There were cracks that would show through from time to time, and with each fracture Flora could feel her heart break a little more. But still, she had to be strong for him, if for no other reason than to carry on in Luke's place. The Professor's office wasn't going to clean itself, after all.

But she had to admit, she found it difficult, toeing the line between what she should do because Luke wasn't there to do it anymore, and what she should avoid doing because Luke wasn't there to do it anymore. She thoght maybe bringing the Professor his tea would be a safe ground on which to tread, until the Professor smiled brightly to himself and said, 'Thank you, Luke.' Flora's smile hadn't even wavered - the Professor was absent-minded and once called the Parrot Rosetta when grading papers - as she corrected him in her usual bubbly manner. The Professor, however, set his tea down on her tray, thanked her, and excused himself. She would have sworn she could hear him crying in his room, were it not for the fact that she very much wanted to pretend the Professor did no such thing.

The days and weeks passed in which she noticed the Professor checking his mailbox quite often, several times a day, even long after Flora had brought the post in. She told herself he was looking for a hidden puzzle, although she knew he was waiting to hear from Luke. She was waiting, too, but she'd made up her mind that if a letter from Luke did, in fact, arrive, she would leave it in the box for the Professor to find. Flora could carry on, but she was becoming more and more convinced that the Professor couldn't.

She still didn't know why Luke left in the first place. He'd told the Professor and Flora both that he was moving to America because his father had gotten a job overseas, but Flora knew that this couldn't be the whole truth. Luke's father had been the mayor of Misthallery, and mayors simply did not transfer jobs to different countries. There was also no real need for Luke to leave with his father - he had a room at the Professor's house, was enrolled in a nearby school, and was getting on pretty well where he was. He could still go over to visit his parents during the holidays, but as his last birthday and Christmas had been spent at the Professor's house, Flora doubted very much that Clark Triton cared about family bonding. Flora tried to formulate her own theories about why Luke had to leave, but she had nothing to go on. Luke hardly if ever talked about his parents, and when the Professor told stories about his past they mostly involved Claire, Randall, or a woman called Emmy. Flora knew that Clark had been a school friend of the Professor's but as they rarely talked, Flora had to wonder if their friendship had ended poorly.

But then why had Luke been with the Professor in the first place?

* * *

Three or four months after the time-travel incident, as they called it, Clive requested to see Flora. The Professor wasn't keen on letting Flora go out to the prison, but she went anyway (with Chelmey and Barton as supervision, of course). She felt her breath hitch as she approached him, smirking sullenly on the other side of a plastic window.

'I'd thought they would have had you in stripes?' It was a stupid remark, but what were you supposed to say to the man who kidnapped you and held you hostage to make sure his weapon of mass destruction wasn't completely destroyed with himself on board?

Clive shook his head. He looked a lot less like Luke now, his hair cut quite short and face no longer obscured by a cap. 'Orange is uglier, I guess.' He blushed, and Flora could see the gears working to backtrack as quickly as possible. 'It looks lovely on you, of course,' he corrected.

Flora rolled her eyes at him. 'Was there something you wanted to discuss?' she asked.

Clive rubbed the back of his head. 'Right. Er - I'm sorry.'

Flora had a difficult time remembering what he was meant to be sorry for.

'For everything,' Clive clarified. 'For kidnapping you, for trapping you, for just generally being an ass-' he cleared his throat. 'For just generally being a jerk.'

'Well,' Flora said. She blinked, unsre of how to continue. Should she forgive him? Was there a reason not to? Was there a reason to do so?

'You don't have to say anything,' Clive mumbled. 'I wouldn't forgive me either.'

'Oh,' she sighed. 'I do forgive you. I just don't know what's wrong with you.'

Clive shook his head. 'Believe me, I don't know what's wrong with me either.'

* * *

Flora finally began to understand while cleaning out one of the Professor's desk drawers. And she was livid, wantig a better explanation than the one Clark had given the Professor in the neatly-written letter. She wanted one that would make sense to her. She wanted one that seemed real, and not the petty nonsense the letter outlined. But she knew she couldnnnnnnn't cofront the Profsesor himself about the letter, so she brought the paper to Clive and asked him to read it out loud to her as she sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair and huffed to herself.

"'My dear friend Hershel,'" Clive began, "'I am writing this letter to inform you that I will soon be moving overseas, and Luke shall be accompanying me. Although I find the words difficult to say - or write, as the case may be - I know that I must be completely honest with you.

"'I do not believe that the relationship you hold with my son is an appropriate one...'" Clive trailed off, reading the letter silently for a few seconds before regarding Flora with caution. 'Flora, what Mr Triton has written here... You do realize, this could land the Professor in a lot of trouble? It could potentially jepordize everything that he has worked for.'

Flora crossed her arms and raised her head defiantly. 'I can't understand how -'

'Flora!' Clive cried. 'What Clark describes is illegal! Even if it's not true -' Flora narrowed her eyes at him, and Clive softened. 'If word gets out about what Clark is accusing the Professor of, it would ruin him. He would go to jail, Flora.'

'But I don't understand -' Flora gasped, surprised to find herself crying. Clive wished he could reach out, but all he hit was the window that separated them. 'The Professor would never hurt Luke. He loves him.'

Clive smiled sadly at her. 'Unfortunately, dear Flora, I think that's the issue.'

'But how can that hurt anybody? I don't understand why people,' She had to draw in another breath, just to calm herself down. 'I don't understand why people are so against love.'

Clive tilted his head. 'Flora,' he called, but Flora wouldn't look at him. 'Flora,' he tried again, softer. 'I need you to listen carefully, and not to interrupt me as I try to explain this to you. Do yo understand me?' She nodded. 'I quite like you, and Luke, and the Professor very much. So I need you to promise me that you will destroy this letter as thoroughly and as soon as possible.'

'I promise,' Flora said.

Clive nodded. 'I don't think Clark means a good deal of what he's said in this letter. It sounds as though he is simply jealous. Not only is his job very isolating, meanig that he hasn't seen much of the Professor since their school days together, but his own son refused to speak to him for a good period of time, before forging his name in a letter and then running off with Layton. Jealousy works in many different ways - imagine how you would feel, were you a parent, to find that someone else has taken your place in your child's heart?'

Flora glanced at her lap, twiddling her thumbs idly as she tought.

'What would worry me further, were I Clark, is Layton's reaction. You said this was the only letter? There was no ongoing correspondance, that the Professor didn't try to defend himself?'

'He shouldn't have to!' Flora exclaimed.

'That's not the point, Flora. The point is that, to Clark, Layton's lack of defense may translate to Clark as shame, and confirmation that his suspicions are correct. After all, he is worried for his son's future, as Layton is all Luke ever talks about. Tell me, how old is Luke now?'

Flora had to stop to consider for a moment. 'He was nearly fifteen when he left for America with is father. That was about a year ago, so he'd be nearing sixteen now?'

Clive nodded. 'And when did he first start to travel with the Professor?'

'When he was ten,' Flora said softly.

'Luke spent nearly five years with the Professor as his guardian, his mentor, and his only friend - until the Professor adopted you, of course. Tell me, how often do you think Luke speaks of you in the letters he sends back home?'

Flora chuckled. 'Not very often. I've watched him write them before, in the event that he needed help with spelling. Everything he wrote was about -' She stopped, blinking several times. 'Oh.' Clive nodded. 'But still! What should that matter?'

'Because it never grew out of a childhood crush, Flora,' Clive said. 'If anything, it just kept growing. You must have been able to see it - I certainly could, and Layton never did anything to deter Luke's affections.'

'Because he'd never do anything to hurt Luke's feelings,' Flora finished.

Clive nodded. 'Even if it was for Luke's own good. Now can you see why Luke's father might be concered about their friendship?' Flora nodded.

'But I still don't get why it all matters so much. Luke loves the Professor, and the Professor loves Luke. They make each other happy. Why should it matter if Luke is a little young, or if they're both men? I just...' She shook her head and swallowed hard. 'I don't understand, Clive. Why does it all matter?'

Clive shook his head, now clearly at a loss too. 'Because that's just the way the world works,' he told her.


	2. I bought it downtown

The Professor had been waiting outside the little café where he and Flora were meant to meet for about half an hour now. He was telling himself not to worry, because the chances of anyone hurting Flora while Barton and Chelmey tailed her were slim to none. But telling himself not to worry was one thing; actually ceasing the dreadful thoughts from entering his mind was quite another. He checked his watch again, biting the inside of his cheek. It wasn't like her to be so _late_.

Layton should have been ashamed when Luke's voice crept into his head and murmured, _Don't worry Professah. Flora can handle herself. She's stronger than you give her credit for_. It really wasn't normal for grown men to hallucinate the voice of their thirteen-year-old apprentices, and yet hearing Luke talk to him was an almost daily occurrence. Admittedly, it was also one he hadn't tried prevent.

Layton massaged his right temple as he shoved the pocket-watch back into his jacket pocket. His day had been stressful enough, what with Rosetta's persistent hints and the coffee maker absolutely exploding in a manner that even he couldn't fix (he really should call Paul about that), without the added worry of his absent surrogate daughter and the guilt trip that hearing Luke's voice always sent him on – especially when it said things like that. _She's stronger than you give her credit for_.

Many times the Professor had debated taking Flora along with him, especially when it seemed her need to be close to him was at least half petty jealousy over the amount of attention Luke received. Which in itself was rather strange because, at Clark had pointed out, Luke wasn't Layton's child (and Layton was unbelievably thankful for that). Flora, on the other hand, was. It was for this reason that he was so protective of her, yet stating the issue that way made it seem as though he didn't care for Luke's safety. He did, very much – it was something to which Emmy, could attest, if she was still around. Luke had also been with Layton for much longer and was very pointedly his _apprentice_, as he reminded anyone who questioned his steady existence by the Professor's side. But saying this to Flora would have been an insult, implying that she wasn't as capable as Luke. There was no way of winning this argument, though the Professor had tried many times. If he'd thought the fights would stop after Luke left, he was wrong.

He nearly missed Flora approaching as he battled the two perspectives in his mind –the one which said, as her legal guardian, he had every right to panic and know where she was; and the other, in Luke's voice, which reminded him that Flora was a fully grown adult and capable of walking herself from the lecture hall to the café down the street without getting kidnapped (even if Clive had proved that theory incorrect). He was shocked to see that Flora was running, and the paranoid voice in his head shouted _I knew it!_, and he prepared for trouble the nearer to him Flora came. His defensive stance dropped, however, when he saw the young girl, nearly Flora's age, being dragged behind her.

'Professor!' Flora shouted, and Layton had to close his eyes to keep the image of Luke, shouting the same thing in the same tone whilst pointing in different directions, from entering his mind. It was problematic, as the Professor had no desire to accidentally call Flora by the wrong name – and at the same time, forcing the thoughts from his mind pulled his face back into a grimace. Trying to explain this sort of situation never went over well with other people, even the ones like Flora who tried desperately to be understanding.

Flora stopped short just in front of the Professor, chest heaving from exertion and sweat breaking out on her forehead. The girl behind her looked so vulnerable and terrified that Layton nearly apologized on Flora's behalf. She was a little taller than Flora, though not by much, with cropped dirty-blond hair and…clothes that were, frankly, a little inappropriate for the weather. She had no sleeves, and only a white vest to cover over some sort of orange shirt. Her eyes were brown and wide, her pale face nearly illuminating the freckles on her cheek.

'Professor,' Flora started again. 'This is Heather. I just found her asleep on a park bench, and she hasn't anywhere to go. Do you think she could stay with us until it's safe for her to go back to her house?'

The Professor took a deep breath, in which he meant to analyse the situation and all its possible outcomes. He could be objective about this whole thing, he decided, even as Flora's eyes grew wide as disks and Heather tried to hide herself behind her newly found friend.

* * *

In hindsight, the Professor probably should have said no. It wasn't that Heather was impolite or a poorly behaved guess, but the truly ethical thing would have been to take her to the police and have them help her home. She must have had some bad experiences with law enforcement in the past, however, as the mere mention of Inspector Chelmey and Constable Barton startled poor Heather enough that she accidentally knocked the spoon out of her tea and scalded her knees. She didn't seem to notice, though, and that was just the first in a long line of things that the Professor found odd about Heather Mason.

Her name was yet another oddity. He'd met women and girls named Heather before, and the surname Mason wasn't all that obscure, especially for an American. But when either he or Flora called her name, she reacted slowly to it, as though not recognizing it as her own at first. She was skitterish about the smallest of things as well, eyeing all food and drink with suspicion and looking at the sharp and heavy objects which littered the Professor's home, as though trying to catalogue which would be most useful in the event of a physical altercation.

At the same time, he found that he couldn't deny anything of Flora. She had so few friends to begin with – especially female friends – and the two were getting on so well together. Heather, who had been so skinny when she first arrived, was filling out normally. Flora made her wash her hair and drug her to lectures, explaining smoothly to her professors that Heather was a visiting cousin. In return, Heather introduced Flora to a variety of…interesting life skills, including how to start a contained fire in a bucket and how to kill insects in a pinch. She was good at puzzles and traded them often with Flora, but it almost seemed as though she was preparing Flora for something much worse than normal, everyday issues.

It didn't help that Heather had near-constant nightmares.

Heather wasn't one to go about alerting the whole house when things got terribly wrong. She was, in that way, so different from other teenagers that Layton had known. Every other teenager that Layton had met was desperate for attention. Heather seemed to hate it, and would take any route necessary to avoid being seen or heard. There was one night, however, when she couldn't help it. She'd fallen asleep in Flora's room while waiting for Flora to return from her walk with Clive (who now, occasionally, was allowed out specifically to see Flora), and Layton heard the screams before she woke, and the sobs after she did.

Layton stood outside of Flora's room, unsure of how to proceed. Flora never had nightmares, and Luke liked to pretend he never did (and Layton pretended that Luke never crawled into bed with him after these non-existent nightmares, because you simply didn't talk about things such as that, let alone acknowledge them). Heather was a homeless young woman he'd known for nearly a month now, but he knew so little about her that he wasn't sure of the appropriate calming method. So he did what every good English gentleman should do, and made tea.

* * *

Heather managed to make it down the stairs in her night clothes. They were a bit more revealing than the professor thought they should be, but she wasn't his child and he wasn't about to dictate what she could and could not wear. She startled to see him steeping their tea and started to turn around when his voice interrupted her.

'Heather. Please sit down.' Harsh enough to be commanding, soft enough to not frighten. Heather nodded and sat at the far end of the table, hands in her lap and gaze directed downward. The professor placed her cup and saucer before her, and sat down close enough to ask questions and hear their answers reasonably well.

'What is your real name?' he asked.

He'd been expecting her to be shocked, or to deny that there was any other name besides Heather to which she belonged. Instead, she took a sip of her tea, and answered. 'Cheryl,' she said. 'Heather is my middle name. Although some people call me Alessa,' she grimaced, as though regretting bringing it up. 'Please don't ask who calls me Alessa. Not now.' She closed her eyes and looked away, whispering, 'You wouldn't believe me anyway.'

'But it's not normal for you to go by Heather?'

Heather – Cheryl – turned the cup slowly, letting it warm up her fingers. 'I'd just gotten used to being called Cheryl again. I had to hide that name for the longest time. But there are people trying to find me again, and so I had to lose the name.' She ran a hand through her hair, and let her elbow hit the table, still supporting her head. 'I should probably find a more creative name. They'll be looking for a Heather now too, come to think of it.'

'Who's looking for you?' the Professor asked.

Cheryl shook her head. 'I don't think you'd believe me, even if I told you.'

'Fair enough,' the Professor said, and it was true. He didn't much believe in the supernatural, and if this girl thought she was being chased by demons he would have to earn her trust and put his own bias away. 'Where are your parents?'

To his great surprise, Heather's eyes filled with tears. In the short time that she'd been with them, she'd put on a strong front – cold, almost, to the point of sociopathic. But now the Professor saw the little girl she felt like, and had to resist the urge to protect her. Despite himself, he wondered what Luke would do now, what he would say about her. How much of her story he would believe.

'I don't… I don't have any parents,' Heather answered. 'I never knew my mom, she died in a fire. And Harry – my father – he was killed, they were trying to get to me –' she shook her head, covering her eyes from the Professor.

'My sympathies,' he said. 'How did you make it to London?'

'That's the thing,' Heather said. 'I don't know. Douglas told me to run, and I just _did_.'

'Who is Douglas?' he asked. 'A friend of yours?'

Heather blushed, batting hair away from her eyes. 'Sort of, yeah. He's a bit older than me, but he's helped me through so much, y'know?'

The Professor narrowed his eyes in concern. 'Have you and Douglas entered a sexual relationship?'

Heather's face turned completely red, her mouth gaping comically. 'What? – no! No! I mean, he's sorta attractive for an older guy, but no. No! He'd consider that age-inappropriate.'

'Do you mean to say that, were it not for his protestations, you might have considered a relationship with him?' the Professor asked. His exterior remained cool and unchanged, and if there was a slight tremble in his voice or hands that betrayed his anxiety at the question, Heather didn't notice. She was concentrating on a point somewhere in the distance, looking out a window.

'I think…that life where I come from is too short to worry about what other people think wrong or right is. Even now I'm not sure what the status of our relationship is – or was. He hasn't caught up with me, so I guess he never made it.' Heather tried to appear cavalier about the realization, but her voice wavered just enough for the Professor to notice. 'He's just one more person I never got to say goodbye to,' she whispered.

'Heather –'

'No,' she snapped. 'Don't pity me, and don't ask me any more questions. Not tonight. I can answer everything you and Flora want to know at a later date. Tomorrow even. But not right now. All it'll do is make the nightmares worse.'

The Professor nodded, and sipped at his tea, remaining silent for a few minutes as if to prove his respect of her request. When Heather started to take a drink of her own, he spoke up again. 'Is there anything about me that you would like to know? About our life here?'

Heather didn't hesitate. 'Flora's not really your daughter, is she?'

The Professor crossed one leg over the other and let his hands, folded, sit in his lap. 'Not biologically speaking. Flora is a member of the Reinhold family, a very rich and eccentric family that used to reside in the countryside.'

'Why did her parents send her off with you?'

'They didn't,' he answered, and continued before Heather could get another question in. 'Her mother died when she was very young, and her father died some time ago. He was very protective of his daughter, and outlined the responsibility of her wellbeing in his will. She was to go with whomever could complete a series of tests – one of which was to make her smile.'

'Did it ever occur to you that her father was looking for a husband for Flora, and not a guardian?' she pushed.

The Professor leaned back in his chair a bit, smiling slightly. Heather was much quicker than he had initially thought. 'Yes, the thought had occurred. But I would never press a lady to do something she did not wish to do. Flora has never, to my knowledge, had any such inclinations toward me, and I have never presented the matter to her.'

'So… you don't intend to marry her?' Heather asked calmly.

The Professor shook his head. 'Flora is not really my… "type." That's how people describe it now, yes?'

Heather nodded quickly, and let her eyes drift as she thought. The Professor had started to take another drink when the next question arose. 'What about Luke?'

The Professor choked on his tea, blushing at his own un-gentlemanly behaviour. Heather, on the other hand, laughed. It was the first time, to the Professor's knowledge, that she had done so since arriving at his house. Or since arriving in England, for that matter. 'Honestly,' he chided, 'What would even make you ask such a thing?'

Heather shrugged, still smirking. 'Flora just said that you haven't been the same since Luke left. I just sorta assumed Luke was your boyfriend or something. She didn't really elaborate, I thinks he was kinda sad about it to. But like, holding back on it so she could take care of you.'

The Professor wasn't sure what part of Heather's statement he should react to, and blinked solemnly as he compiled responses in his head. 'You don't have to be so calculated, you know,' Heather said softly. 'Just say whatever's on your mind.'

'That wouldn't really be gentlemanly, Miss Cheryl,' he replied, smiling sadly.

'Maybe not to the English, but I'm American. We're all about impassioned speeches, and I think that's good sometimes. It lets people know what you're really thinking and really feeling, without any filters.'

The Professor swallowed, and sighed before beginning. 'Luke was… well, he called himself my apprentice, but that's not an entirely accurate statement. I had been friends with his father when we were younger, but we'd been out of touch until Luke forged a letter in his father's name, asking me to come to Misthallery and solve a mystery.'

Heather laughed. 'God, I like this kid already. So why'd he call himself your apprentice?'

The Professor shrugged. 'I honestly don't know, but I don't suppose there was a better description. Luke was exceptionally good at puzzles, and I suppose he was never thoroughly stimulated at home. His father was the mayor, and I don't think he had very many friends. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure his father had a lot of time for him. When – when a colleague of mine and I arrived in Misthallery, Luke had taken to shutting himself in his room and refusing to open the door for anyone.'

Heather frowned and rubbed the back of her head. 'You say "was" a lot.' The Professor nodded in agreement. 'Do you mean – did Luke die?'

'What?' the Professor shouted in alarm. 'No! No, no. He's living in America now, with his father. Has been for…' It was the Professor's turn to look away in mock distraction. 'It's been nearly a year, now that I think of it.'

'Do you still keep in touch?'

The Professor grimaced, and avoided Heather's gaze. If she was anything like Flora, she'd be disappointed in his answer. 'Not really. Luke writes, but I am never quite sure how to respond.' He felt Heather's gaze lingering, and it occurred to him, absurdly, that she could maybe tell that he wasn't giving her the entire truth. 'His father asked me to stop responding to Luke's letters.'

'What? Why?'

'Clark was fairly adamant in the belief that my relationship with Luke had grown rather _inappropriate_. I am unsure how many of his words were written out of spite that Luke rarely returned home, but I am aware that Luke often spoke of me at length, and I suppose this made Clark uncomfortable.'

'How old is Luke now? How long was he with you and Flora?' she asked.

The Professor closed his eyes and counted in his head. It always felt as though more time had gone by than actually had. 'Sixteen. He should be nearing Seventeen sometime soon,' he sighed. 'He had been living with me for approximately five years. Flora had only been around for two of those. Before her, there was an assistant named Emmy.'

Heather blinked in surprise, and he could understand why. He hardly ever talked about Emmy, especially now that Luke was gone. 'What happened to Emmy? Did she have asshole parents too?'

The Professor laughed loudly, just once, and covered his mouth with his hand. 'Clark really isn't that awful. He is trying to be the best parent that he can. Just because you or I do not agree with his choices does not make him a bad person. As for Emmy –' the Professor smirked, happy to show Heather's own words back to her. 'Please, for the time being, do not enquire about her. I am not sure I am ready to discuss the nature of her departure from our lives, nor am I certain you will believe it.'

Heather's eyebrows raised. 'Wow. Okay then.'

The Professor smiled, and noticed that he felt rather warmly toward Heather now. Like he knew her. Like he couldn't relate to her. 'I feel that it is now time for us to retire, and hope the Flora will be back at a reasonable hour. Although she is with Clive, I do believe prison officials monitor their activities. I am not overly thrilled, but I am also not as worried.'

Heather let her mouth hang open a bit as her head tilted to reveal her confusion. '_What?_'

He shook his head. 'I will leave that for Flora to relate to you. Or for Clive to do so, if you would like to visit him.'

Heather now looked moderately worried, and the Professor counted this as an odd sort of victory. Whatever Heather had seen in her life before arriving in London had obviously been quite scary. It was comforting to know that the real world could be just as confusing, just as worrying.

'Good night, Cheryl,' he said as a hint, and Heather grumbled as she set her teacup and saucer in the sink and started to trudge off toward Flora's room.

She stopped in the doorway and turned, just enough for the Professor to hear her ask one last question. 'Do you think Luke will come back to you, once he's old enough to leave?'

The Professor smiled in sadness, an unfortunately common occurrence for him. 'I don't know. I have always hoped so. It depends mostly, I believe, on whether he can forgive me for abandoning him in the way that I have.

'And now, dear Cheryl, I really must insist that you go to bed.'


	3. She sounds like the songs

Eventually, Clark had to give up on the idea that he'd ever had any control over his son to begin with. He considered getting a Chin's Petition against the boy, but doing so would probably be a lot more trouble than it was worth. If Luke was dead-set on acting out, then there was nothing Clark could do to change his mind. Luke had always been determined, stubborn, and far too smart for his own good.

Besides which, the press coverage would be a bloody nightmare. He was foreign delegate, for God's sake. Trying to take any legal action against his own son would have just reflected poorly on himself. He heard the way these Americans talked about children, and everything was always blamed on the parent. He'd think it rather ageist, had he not been having issues with Luke. Of course, the thought had occurred to him that Luke's behaviour was his fault. Maybe he'd let Luke take too many liberties as a child, spoiled him too much. The Tritons were wealthy, after all. Maybe he should have said 'no' to him more often.

Or maybe, he should have just left him back in London with the Professor. That thought had occurred to him as well, but it wasn't one he liked to dwell on. It was heart-breaking and more than just a tad mortifying to realise that your child adopted their own surrogate parent in your stead, but it stung worse that Layton had started out as _his_ friend – not Luke's. He was still peeved at Luke for forging his signature, but that was yet another indiscretion for which his son received no punishment. How could Clark do such a thing when the boy was hardly ever around – either out with Layton and Emmy, or locked up in his room?

And there was another thought to reminisce on, another failure Clark contemplated as he heard the tick of the front door shutting, out of tune and rhythm with the clock on the wall signifying it being well past two AM. 'Where have you been?' he demanded of Luke, nearing seventeen and sullen as ever. Luke didn't respond verbally – he never did, hadn't in the nearly three years they'd been away – but glared in the general direction of his father before heading up to his room.

Clark did the only thing he could think to do: sigh, and give up. He couldn't keep Luke from sneaking out of the house when the boy was ten years-old. What in the world made him think he could keep a teenager with a learner's permit from leaving?

The Professor wanted to burn the letter when it came in, but that would have been very un-gentlemanly. There was also the fact that Flora had read it as well, and was bubbling at the idea of visiting America for the first time. If for no other reason, Layton couldn't stand to let Flora down.

But the letter still made him so angry. Clark had always been a tad presumptuous (it came along with being a politician, after all), but the letter made Layton want to deny Clark's request out of spite. If it hadn't been for Flora's excitement and his genuine concern for Luke's well-being, he would have said no simply out of spite. Or better yet, send Clark a full dissertation on the various reasons his answer was negative. But he also recognized the great risk he ran of Luke taking the rejection personally, even if he did know nothing of Clark's letter. Layton had been suspecting for some time that Clark monitored what little communication the two had managed before it was entirely cut off, and the last thing in the world he wanted was for Luke to feel rejected by him, of all people.

(Secretly, he was rather proud of Luke for giving his father such a hard time. He didn't want to think it, but the words _serves you right for tearing us apart_ entered his mind anyway. His mind was a thing he couldn't control, and asking an allowance for its thoughts should be considered a relatively reasonable request.)

* * *

Flora was packed and ready to go several weeks before their arrival was due. The Professor had kept his response short and as sweet as he could manage it, without it sounding so terribly fake. They travelled by boat so that Flora could take pictures (and send them to Clive, though the Professor was adamantly denying that bit) of the scenery as it passed. Layton spent a good lot of time, if not the entire trip, wondering how much had changed and trying his hardest not to be sick. He wasn't sure which was worse: the motion-sickness, or his own anxiety.

Clark was waiting for them by the docks. He and the Hershel exchanged what felt like a stern greeting, but if Flora found it odd she didn't remark on it. Clark spent the drive back to their home conversing with Flora in a manner that Layton found condescending – and yet again, which Flora didn't comment upon. Perhaps she was so used to being coddled that she couldn't recognise when she was being patronised to. Clark wasn't interested that she'd picked up photography as a hobby (though her photographs were, in all truth, quite beautiful). He just wanted to avoid starting a conversation with Layton.

Flora giggled at the end of some innocuous sentence, and gasped. 'I'm sorry! I've kept the two of you from talking,' she peeked behind her at Layton's still and stoic form. 'The two of you must have a lot of catching up to do. After all, it's been…how long since the two of you have seen one another?'

'A while,' Layton answered, not moving his gaze from the car's window. 'But it's fine. We can talk later.'

'Yes,' Clark jumped in. 'Tell me more about this chap you're seeing – Clive, you said his name was?'

And that was when Layton really tuned their conversation out.

'…and he does this every day. I swear the child hates me,' Clark grumbled. Layton, ever the gentleman, refrained from responding.

'Oh, I very much doubt that,' Flora commented, sipping her tea. 'He's never said anything bad about you before. Has he, Professor?'

Layton shook his head, still staring at the front door. Their current residence was rather modest in comparison to the home they'd occupied in Misthallery, but it was still a good sight more impressive than any house in which Layton had lived. Flora, on the other hand, had definitely seen better. But again, rubbing her good fortune in the faces of others was simply not her style. Hershel could commend her for that, and very often did. Now, though, he simply wished she could be rude in his place.

Layton excused himself from the room on the premise of needing to check something in his luggage. Of course they were staying at the Triton's, despite Layton saying several times he had no issue booking a hotel room. He knew that Clark's generosity wasn't the reason he "wouldn't hear of it," but that he was convinced neither Luke nor Layton would try anything odd whilst Clark was sleeping under the same roof.

'You've been quiet since we got here,' Flora commented. Layton was surprised to find her, hands clasped behind her back, admiring a pictures of immediate family hung on the wall. 'I'm guessing this really isn't just a friendly social call?'

Layton smiled at his own misjudgement. Of course Flora realised that something was wrong. She always had been much smarter and much more capable than he ever remembered to give her credit for. 'You picked up on that?' he asked warily.

Flora gave a nearly imperceptible nod. 'The two of you have barely talked to one another, despite swearing up and down that you were the best of friends. It's awkward, I know, to see good friends after such a long time. But this hesitation between you two – it's more than just the typical nervous excitement of a long-awaited encounter. The two of you are not on good terms, and something's wrong with Luke.' Flora turned to her mentor, regarding him with sad eyes. 'Please tell me what's wrong?'

The Professor paused, uncertain how to explain the situation without frightening her. 'Clark and I have, for some time, been debating the way Luke has…been raised.'

Flora nodded. 'I've read the letters.'

The Professor blinked and turned to face her fully, taken aback. 'If you already understood, Flora, dear girl, then why ask me to recount the situation for you?'

'Just because I have read does not mean I have understood,' she corrected. 'And I wanted to hear it from you. I do not always trust what others tell me, no matter how gullible I may seem to you.' Layton blushed and looked down, not wanting to admit how often he had assumed she was naïve to the way the world worked.

'Is it true?' she asked timidly. Layton looked up to find her eyes fixed in a focused stare. Eyebrows lowered – not glaring, but determined. Then, more firmly, she expanded. 'Did you touch Luke without his consent?'

Layton closed his eyes, marvelling in her wording. The world which was so black and white to a vast majority of people, was all one blur of grey to Flora. 'No,' he answered. 'But I have been more affectionate with him than is deemed socially acceptable.'

'Clive explained that might be the case,' Flora said. 'But I still don't comprehend why that is so bad. Wouldn't people just assume you are his father?'

Layton smiled sadly, not looking at her so much as through her. 'I had an assistant once, a woman named Emmy. When the three of us were together, people did often assume that we were a family. No one questioned if we held hands, or hugged, or became frightened when one of us was in peril. But when Emmy left, our social status shifted.'

'So because you are a man, you are not permitted to be loving or caring toward others?' Flora demanded, clearly infuriated on the Professor's behalf.

'With you, it is different. Father-daughter relationships are admired by society. But people would feel I was giving Luke the…' he clicked his tongue against his teeth in search of the correct words. 'Wrong message. There are psychologists who believe that parental relationships are the main factors in a child's _leaning_ as an adult, if you understand, Flora?'

'So there is a correct way to lean now?' she asked.

'Flora, dear, there has always been a correct way to lean, and it is not in the same direction.'

'But – there are people –' She flailed.

'And they are on the fringes of society,' the Professor agreed. 'And they are also adults. That is a very essential thing for you to remember, Flora. There are laws regulating appropriate and inappropriate behaviour. Consenting adults may break them with little to no consequence, but the key words there are "consent" and "adult."'

'Meaning?' Flora demanded.

'That children cannot give consent.' Flora blinked slowly, taking in the information. 'There is a very particular reason why Bruno was made to wait to send for help in regarding the matters of your estate. The trials St Mystere set up for visitors were not meant to find you a guardian, dear Flora, but a husband.'

'No!' Flora gasped, backing up slightly.

Layton laughed. 'Surely you do not find me that repulsive?'

'No!' she back-tracked. 'It's just – well, you are like family to me, you and Luke. The idea is… confusing, to say the least. It is difficult to ever imagine either of you occupying a different role.'

'I am very glad to hear that,' Layton responded softly. 'But I'm afraid our conversation must come to an end. Luke should be arriving home relatively soon, and Clark may wonder what we have gotten up to in the hallway.'

Flora cringed her nose at the mere suggestion, but schooled her face into something less worrisome as she walked out to the main dining area.

Luke had already returned and was slouching in a dining room chair, arms folded, hat askew on the back of his head. He looked in boredom at the kitchen table, hoping to find some sort of pattern or hidden puzzle in the stains on the wood. He nearly fell out of his chair when Flora entered.

'Flora!' he shouted, and rushed from his chair to greet her. He had grown quite a bit in their time apart, and he now looked down on her, at least a head taller. His arms enveloped her tiny frame, and she giggled as she hugged him back, holding onto the fabric of his blazer to gather in the reality of it all. She also tried – unsuccessfully – not to choke on the stench of tobacco and alcohol, of which he reeked.

'Oh, yeah,' he blushed. 'Sorry about that.' Luke looked directly behind her, breath held, and saw the person he had been hoping and praying to see during all the time they'd been separated. 'Professa',' he whispered. He came to stand far too close to the man, his friend, his teacher. Layton was still a tad taller, so it was on his toes that Luke stood to wrap his arms around Layton's neck. Behind Luke's back, Clark studied his former friend carefully. Layton felt trapped, not wanting to give either Triton the wrong impression. His left hand went to steady his hat, while his right took place on Luke's upper back, steadying him. He meant to keep his eyes on Clark through the brief hug, but he allowed himself one moment of weakness to pretend like things weren't as strained as they were.

As they pulled away, Luke whispered, 'It's so good to see you. I've missed you so much.' The look he gave Layton was still as full of reverence as it had been on all of their adventures together. Like he was some sort of ideal to Luke, a hero in some fashion.

The look didn't last long as he turned to Flora. 'You too! The Professor's too busy to write letters to silly little kids, but what's you're excuse?'

Flora feigned offense, one hand fluttering to her chest. 'What makes you think I'm not busy as well?'

'Busy doing what?' he teased, following up with a terrible southern accent, 'Beatin' off gentleman callers with a stick?'

'No,' Layton quipped with a knowing smirk. 'I think Clive does that for her.'

The expression on Luke's face made the glare with which Flora was now gracing him all the while. 'No!' Luke shouted. 'You and Clive? Really?'

'So you know this man?' Clark asked. He sounded unamused, yet resigned.

Luke went rigid as he turned to his father. 'Yes,' he said. 'I do, in fact.'

The air in the room dropped temperatures, or so Flora could have sworn, as the group regarded each other with hostile auras.

'So,' Flora chirped. 'Is there some sort of big event, or something?'

Layton marvelled at the change in his adopted daughter. At one point in time, she'd made for a terrible liar and she couldn't hide to save her life. If there was anything good that Clive had been teaching her over the weeks (or had it been months?), it was how to lie smoothly.

'Well,' Clark cleared his throat. 'As Luke has so generously demonstrated, I simply cannot get him to behave.' Behind Clark, Luke rolled his eyes. 'However, I recall him speaking very highly of the two of you, and thought that perhaps he would listen to some old friends.'

'You mean you manipulated my friends into coming here to train me?' Luke demanded.

But his father, too, could be stubborn and determined and lie. He ignored the outburst, smiling at his guests and saying. 'Now I think you know where your rooms are! Have a good rest, my friends.'

* * *

Luke had never quite learned to contain his emotions. It was a youthful attribute of his which seemed to grow intensity with his age, as opposed to becoming more refined and controlled. One of the good things about his residing in America was how little people here about hiding their feelings. Repression seemed to be a technique only the Europeans held dear, and he understood why others found it so frustrating.

It was without preamble that he stormed into Layton's room, interrupted his reading by loftily taking his book from his hands and tossing it across the room, cupped Layton's face in his hands, and kissed him.

Layton should have said no. There were so many times in their past in which Layton should have said no, should have pushed Luke off, should have explained to him why this type of contact was wrong. But he never did. Not even once. He had never been able to deny anything of Luke, no matter how inappropriate the gesture or expensive the item. He would willingly give Luke anything he wanted, and that thought alone was enough to scare him. It made his blood run cold and he felt he was going mad. He stayed up at night, pondering his morals and wondering if society would be better off with him dead. Clearly it must have meant he was perverted.

It wasn't a case of _Lolita_. He wasn't interested in Luke's age and had no intention of ever discarding Luke for a younger friend or apprentice. He didn't have sexual fantasies regarding the boy, but Luke did mean the world to him, and that was the only way he dealt with himself most nights. It was a different kind of love entirely, one Layton knew would be immediately misunderstood by the world – except, maybe, Flora, and Luke himself.

(And Clive, but the Professor hadn't caught up to that thought yet.)

Layton made no move to pull Luke away, nor did he make any suggestion for him to move closer, but Luke was insistent. He continued to kiss the Professor repeatedly, caressing the man's cheekbones with his thumbs. He moved to straddle his lap where he sat on the bed, tilting Layton's head back slightly as he moved and supporting Layton's neck with one hand. Oddly, the only thing the Professor could think at such an instance was _he must have been practicing this_.

And indeed, his movements did seem rehearsed – not insincere, but too steady and too sure too fluid to be pure whimsy. The moment might have been spur, but the actions were pre-planned.

Luke pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together, and Layton had to close his eyes and wish it all away. Luke let his hands fall to fist in Layton's shirt and whispered, 'I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I always have, Professor.' His tone had grown deep as it so often did after boys advanced through puberty, and even with his eyes closed it was easy for Layton to tell the differences. Luke's hands had become calloused, he was lanky enough for him to be crouched, their knees met, and still be at eye-level. He weighed a considerable amount more as well. Not overly heavy, but also not the weight of a child. Luke hadn't grown to be as skinny as Clark at that age, genes which must have come from his mother.

'Please say you love me too,' Luke whispered. Layton could feel the tremble in the tenor. The insecurity that laid there was childish. Or perhaps it wasn't; weren't adults privy to the same fears? 'And please don't be lying,' Luke begged. 'Please.'

He knew this conversation was serious, that he should have lied to Luke. It would have been safer for them both. But Luke had been the one constant he'd had in his life since Claire, and there was no use in pretending he didn't feel something, no matter how awful a person that might have made him. 'I do,' he said, equally soft, 'and I'm not.'

Luke took the words as permission and started to kiss his mentor again. They were rushed, feverish, and he crawled as close to the Professor's body as he could get. The Professor let his arms drape around Luke's body, and relaxed enough to let himself be kissed, to kiss back in return. He wanted to be gentle, and put his hands on Luke's hips to still his movements, trying to push Luke's tongue back into its own mouth. Luke struggled against the hold and thrust, accidentally, against the Professor's hip.

The Professor tried not to move or give off any sort of reaction, but Luke gasped, shuddering slightly, and reattached his lips to Layton's and repeated the move. Layton felt stuck, as always, between doing what was proper and going with the natural progression of relationships – an issue he'd had with Claire, with Emmy. He didn't move his hands or tighten his grip. He didn't push Luke off, or tell him no, or give him any easier access. Luke simply continued what he was doing, rubbing himself along the line of Layton's hip until he broke their kiss off again to give a muffled sob into Layton's neck as shuddered, jolted, and came.

Luke panted into the Professor's neck, unable to determine what was meant to come next. He reached down for Layton's own member, only to have his hand taken by the wrist and moved away. For one of very few times in his life, that he could recall, the Professor said 'No' to Luke Triton.

As expected, Luke was hurt and confused. 'You don't want me -?' he asked, purposefully leaving the question open-ended.

Layton shook his head. 'It isn't a matter of what I do or do not want, Luke. It's a matter of what is appropriate and what is legal.'

Luke shook his head in frustration. 'I'm of the age of consent in this state –'

'To be with someone within three years of your age range, yes,' Layton confirmed. 'I looked that up before coming here.'

Luke appeared an odd combination of flattered and confused. 'You researched the age of consent before coming to see me?'

Layton lowered his eyes. 'Your father mentioned that you have been getting into a lot of trouble recently. I thought it might be prudent to research the various forms of trouble into which you might be getting.

'The fact remains, Luke, that in the eyes of the law you are a child. What just happened was scandalous enough, but I cannot permit you to lay a hand on me. To do so would violate not only law, but several ethical codes as well. Do you understand?'

Luke had refused to meet his gaze for several minutes now, staring off into a space at the bottom-right corner of the room. Without responding, he leapt from the bed and hurried out the door.

The Professor felt in a place that was perhaps his gut that this moment was a pivotal one, and that making an incorrect decision could cost him a great deal of things – not the least of which was Luke's friendship and trust. He jumped up from where he sat, and hurried after Luke, managing to trail him to a tree in the front yard.

'Why are you following me?' Luke snapped.

'Because I care about you,' Layton responded tiredly.

'No you don't,' his reply was bitter and angry, showing off layers of hurt he'd kept remarkably well stored-away. 'You wouldn't have stopped writing if you cared so much.'

Layton huffed. 'My dear boy, do you really think that was my idea? That I wanted to cease all communication with you?' Luke quieted, but didn't turn around to face his teacher. 'Your father requested that I stop responding to our letters. He considered our friendship unhealthy, and accused me of many things which could ruin me. They could ruin you too, Luke, if these rumours – true or not – got out.'

'That's why you've been so cold since you got here. Why you… why you didn't hug me back.'

'Yes,' Layton confirmed. 'Unless you wish to see me put in jail, we absolutely cannot discuss what transgressed here tonight.'

'I don't, Professa',' Luke said lamely.

Layton smiled, sadly. 'There's another thing, Luke. Despite your declaration of independence and adulthood…why do you still refer to me as Professor?'

Luke blinked in confusion. 'Because it's an honorary title,' he said seriously.

Layton shook his head. 'In the event that you would still like to…pursue a relationship with me, after you have come of age… that would be most inappropriate. It would mean that you do not see me as an equal, but as a superior. Such relationships are inherently wrong. By some standard, it would mean that I am taking advantage of you, and I have no wish to do that.'

'So we can be together after I turn eighteen?' Luke asked.

Layton laughed and shook his head. 'That's all you got away from my little speech?'

'Well what am I supposed to call you, if not Professa'?'

'Well, you could always call me Layton, like Emmy used to,' he suggested. 'Or you could call me Hershel. That is my name, after all.'

'Hershel,' Luke said, trying the sound out on his tongue. It didn't feel as foreign to him as he expected it would. 'Alright. But don't expect me to behave just because you're here. There are a lot of things you've missed while I've been gone,' he said. The smirk he cast Layton reminded him just a little of Clive, in the levels of mischievousness it implied. Luke started to walk off again, not in the direction of the house but of the town.

'Where are you going?' Layton called.

'None of your business,' Luke replied.


End file.
